Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Muse Anarchy

//muse anarchy

Muse Anarchyby Elizabeth Southwood (c) June 1998

Some poems flow, know where to go,while some stagnatein a kind of swamplike a back-of-the-stove pot of simmering stock,which contains fowl feet and turnip tops,and ends up in a compost heap, or in thecase of a poem, a shredder.These poems founder when a persnickety muse asks I. Q. test type questions,such as "Tell me wherethese phrases of yours are going: A barefootgirl in a pollen-yellow silk shawl holding a baby, a lamplit window in a basement apartment, fog drifting through blooming acacias in late January."

Exposing a poem to comments from critical muses,a variation of a town meeting,after hair-tearing frustration,cleans up the hodgepodge that is the "stock" or "swamp" poem'sgiven. A hidden thread will finally be seenon which can be strungthe beads of the poem to keep track of where it has been and is going. You are ledto a kind of found golden stone Corinthian column, which crossed the sea as ballastand was dumped in a swamp, not far froma dented, mudpacked soup pot, which,now repaired and polishedis transformed into a thick, shining copper.When good earth and ivy are put in the pot, and it's placed on top of a section of column.it becomes a miniature garden.On balmy, jasmine-scented summer nights on the patio,the hanging ivy jiggles gently as it dangles over the curved sides of the shadowy columnand gleams like the copper in the glow of butterscotch lights,

The instant poem is mystifyingand sometimes gratifying, but sois the one that's a tangle and thecat's got your tongueand your head aches,and the whole thing's a mistakeand your missing muse is having fun.But then it falls into placeand it's done.